


Immigrant Blues

by CopperBeech



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Canon-Typical Violence, Car Chases, Comedy, Demons, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Holy Water, Humor, Lower Tadfield (Good Omens), POV First Person, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:40:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22480417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBeech/pseuds/CopperBeech
Summary: When Hell discovers that the Demon Crowley has turned, it's the wrong time to let it slip that you're a fan.Crowley’s hand steals into the angel’s. Fuck. I’m not going to be thanked for breaking up a personal moment. I wait to see how far this is going to go ––– and a weight slams me down flat, face in the gravel, dust up my nose. I struggle, try to throw off whoever Hell’s sent,not now not after all this,jerk an elbow back, hear a whoopee-cushion explosive exhale. I get my head up in time to see Crowley turned back to look at us, the angel with one hand on his arm, leaning close, speaking in his ear.“Oi! You! Weren’t you in the front row? Down there?”The angel says nothing, dangerously. Cute, cuddly and not to be fucked with.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Original Infernal Characters & Original Male Characters
Comments: 88
Kudos: 252





	Immigrant Blues

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty much everything starts out by writing itself in my head for a paragraph or two, and it was an interesting surprise when my narrator here started talking. I like outsider POV, and after a succession of pieces with virtually no characters other than the boys, someone tugged at my sleeve and invited me to sit at a greater distance -- perhaps, even, to share his cab -- and try something a bit more Pratchett-y than usual.
> 
> T rating just for language and mild violence. No sex, sorry, after that last one I needed a cool-down lap.

I think it was when the haddock hit the windscreen that I started to feel sure I'd never get out of this alive. It was what I saw at the airfield that made me decide to try.

I really try to stay out of politics. Do your job, keep your head down, keep your nose out of other people’s business. It’s worked for me for six thousand and some years, ever since all of a sudden a bunch of us went _whoof._ Ended up down here. You might say it wasn’t fair but ask me, I never got what was fair and what wasn’t. I mean, She was always moving in mysterious ways; look at that whole thing about the dinosaurs. I don’t know why She didn’t want to just _make_ dinosaurs. Would have been terrific.

The thing is, what they forget to mention sometimes, Heaven was _boring_. You sing praise all day, like She needs that? Wouldn’t it bore the arse off you to hear that week in and week out? Only a few people had interesting jobs. Always wondered what it'd have been like to do some stars myself, or appear to some humans and watch their jaws drop. I had nice wings in those days, gotta tell you. They’re all supposed to be white, but really, there are shades, like those colours of house paint that got someone a commendation about a half century back, you know, so that the missus can drive you bonkers taking three weeks to decide whether to do the foyer in Pineapple Sherbet or Dawn Cloud. Mine were sort of a pale blue if the light was just right. Kinda miss ‘em, but I don’t brood about it.

Anyway, it’s a life, and even Minor Temptations can get interesting – mostly I work remotely, the mortals are so wired up these days it makes things easy. They’ll be sitting on the bus, playing Candy Crush on their phones, and you’re putting it in their head that a little takeaway from that Indian place on the way home would be spiffing, even if they know it’s going to give them curry tummy all night. I get a kick out of that one.

So like I say, I keep my head down, try to do work I can be proud of, and when the notice went out for the all-hands assembly in the main rotunda I told myself it was just another management pep talk, even if we’d all been getting the feeling lately that something was up. You get lots of false alarms in this kind of business, like the mortal millennium (or as we called it, One Thousand A.I., After Interference). It was gonna be the big friggin’ End Of The World, and then what? Bupkiss. Except we had to crank up the Damnation Department because so many of the mortals decided that if the world was ending they were going out with a bang. Never saw so much gluttony, lust and greed, even with loads of us clocking out early. I remember the whole Carnal Sins staff playing cock-shies in the hall with the admin people from Cupidity. Miss those old-fashioned games sometimes.

After that management kept everything a lot more bottled up. There was a rumor something big was up about ten years back -- the high-ups were in a flutter for a while and we all started having to do calisthenics three times a week, and they formed an elite unit to drill with Hellfire, but you know, big organizations are always going on some kind of employee fitness tear. And not long after, one of my mates over in Infernal Beasts said they had something in a pit there that needed three handlers and ate someone’s arm off. One reason I’m happy in my own department.

So we’re all filing in, they’ve had to make the place bigger to hold everyone, running into mates I haven’t seen since the sulphur settled into a simmer, and here’s the Big Cheese looking grim as gruel and only one of the Dukes, which makes me think this isn’t routine, and you got people grousing about being pulled off a job that was about to start cooking and some of the scut workers still carrying their mops (they keep asking for Swiffers, but Supply never seems to get the memo).

There’s still stragglers trying to find a seat or parking it on the damp floor (you have no idea how it can freeze your bum down here, once during a long presentation one of the clerks from Mammon’s file room got stuck and had to thaw himself off with Hellfire, took crap about it for a week). But the Cheese is already up there speaking at the lectern, with all the fruit salad on Zher coat and looking scrofulous as ever, Zhe always goes for dash.

 _“Demonszz, imps, cacodemonszz, incubi, succubi, afreetszz,”_ Zhe starts out (the succubi are always in seats in the galleries, tittering and giggling, they think they’re special). _“Today waszz to be the day you have trained for, longed for, lived for.”_ Made me start to quiver a bit, that did, ‘cos it could only mean one thing, but, _was to be?_ “ _And it may yet be. Your occult bodies are fit. Your szzkills are sharp. Your fire is szzcorching.”_ Boilerplate stuff. Zhe always likes to lay it on. _“But now it is another day as well, a day of infamy, the day that Hell waszz betrayed by one of its own.”_

Well, that got the murmur going, until Zhe had to use a minor demon with a helmet fused onto his head to smack the lectern for silence (Zhe keeps him around for that, whatever he’s paid it isn’t enough).

 _“When I szcheduled this assembly, I exzzpected to be telling you to take your places in formation for the final battle. What the Princeszz of Hell have known for eleven yearszz can now be revealed: the Antichrist haszz been born, walkszz among men_ _.”_ Now Zhe really had to hammer the lectern with the poor bastard.

 _“There iszz only one problem.”_ It’s never good when Zhe says that. It usually means that someone’s fucked up on an industrial scale and is about to get broken to Beast duty. _“One of our beszzt has turned on us. The child cannot be found. And Hell has loszzt a Duke.”_ That was three, but who was going to correct Zher?

 _“_ _Murdered. Exterminated, with_ Holy Water _. This iszz treachery of the higheszzt order.”_

So that was why old Hastur was sitting there with his fists clenched, looking like everyone in the front row was in direct danger of a bloody nose. Him and Ligur, they were always tight. Never saw one without the other. Almost felt bad for him, even if he was a right shit most days.

_“Before the battle can sztart, we muszzt find the child. And we muszzt bring the demon Crowley to juszztice.”_

Which was the point where I shot myself in the arse. Because I’d been kind of cudgeling my brains about that paint colour thing, earlier in the day, and there was my answer, and before I thought I’d pumped both fists in front of me, stupid habit but I always do it when something slots into place, like maybe the foolproof way to throw a whole Weight Watchers group off their diets, and say “ _That’s_ who it was!” Crowley. He had this knack for coming up with little annoyances that turned mortals into frothing wrecks, personally, being in the Minors department, I really admired it.

 _“Yesszz?”_ I realized the demons on either side of me were turning to look at me, kind of shying away, put my fists down and tried to look small. Didn’t work. I’m pretty tall and the guys next to me were short shits. _“You know szzomething?”_

Yeah, Zhe was talking to me. Fuck me hard.

“Nothin, just that – used to follow his work a bit, really did think he was the best –– “

 _“Approach the daiszz,”_ Zhe says. Fuck and _corruption._ I get up there. Zhe checks me out. Zhe’s not tall at all, but Zhe makes you want to disappear. That expression. I mean, that there isn’t one.

 _“We will need a task force,”_ Zhe says. _“Some must seek the child. That group will seek to liaise with the Horsepersonszz, who are on the move as we speak; they will find Him if anyone can. Some must hunt down the traitor. You, if you know his work, you will lead that hunt. Choosze a team.”_

Of all times to forget to keep my mouth shut.

_“The remainder of you, report to your stationsz. Check the temperature of your Hellfire. Those who work with Infernal Beasts, ready your houndzzzs and mounts. Szztand by for orders. In Satan’sz name.”_

No one’s seen Him for dog years, by the way, except Zher apparently. There’s a trapdoor in the floor near Zher office, right in the middle of a place where the hall widens out, with a big ring in the centre, and no one likes to walk over it.

“You be fucked,” mouthed one of my mates from Iniquities as I went back to my seat to pick up my stuff. Thanks, pal.

* * *

So that’s how I ended up an hour later in Zher office with a couple of cacodemons – they stink, but they’re always all in on what they’re doing, small enough to get into tight spaces, and agile – a clerk from Infernal Records who can hack operating systems they haven’t even built yet up there, and the guy from Iniquities, because I wasn’t letting him get away with that. I pitched it to Bubs that he had more experience up top than the rest of us put together, which pretty much sealed it.

Zhe’s issued each of us a manila envelope with a burner phone, cash, a NatWest card and ugh, a Holy Water capsule in case we get caught – “obtained at great riszk and expense,” Zhe says, as if that’s supposed to make me feel more privileged while I’m using it to check out. Me, Zhe hands a purchase order signed by Mammon – “just fill it in if szzomething goes over our credit line” – and a couple sets of handcuffs Zhe just happened to have in Zhir desk drawer that for some reason have little lavender bows on them. You wanna ask, but, you know, some things you just pretend not to notice.

“Here's his laszzt known location,” Zhe says. “Report back on the hour to the number at the top of the contact list. He is wily, but erratic. Known to have a weakness for Earthly beverageszz and luxuries. Driveszz a conspicuous vehicle.” She slaps down a photo, and right at that moment, seemed a shame we were doing everything in our power to ravage the earth and all the works of Man, because I learned how to handle cars when I was working up some little riffs involving persistent breakdowns and backseat quickies, and wouldn’t I just love to get behind the wheel of that baby? And there he is, leaning on the fender in front of what looks like the last shop on its block that isn’t in the peepshow, exotic dancer or bondage-gear business, which makes me take another look at the handcuffs and wonder if there's something personal here, but nah. Lavender's not his colour.

Probably he’d worked up a nice line in luring little old bookworms out of that shop and into the toils of the flesh. Though as I said, I’d always appreciated his subtler work.

“Use the executive lift,” Zhe says. “Passzzword is _Marmite_. In Satan’szz name.”

The cacodemons, who are always too friggin’ excited about everything, are jumping up and down as they follow us, repeating _In Satan’s name_ and punching each other on the shoulder. Under the racket, I hear the guy from Iniquities mutter, “If we get out of this in one piece, your fucking head is coming right off.”

Personally, at that point I didn’t feel like I needed to worry about that.

* * *

Zhe was right about the weakness for luxuries. You work Downstairs, you get used to bad lighting, equipment breakdowns, leaks, funky smells. Here there was nice carpet, the lift was smooth, nothing frizzed or spat sparks. “This is nothing, you should see some of the good hotels,” said the guy from Iniquities, who I guess would have done some work in places like that. He was really starting to get up my nose, but you know, you just gotta suck it up, teamwork.

The Infernal Records guy went to work on the wards; really could crack anything, should have been promoted a long time ago, but talent always gets passed over. He had a garter snake that kept peeking out of his dreads. I’d have to swipe him a hat.

We go poking around for anything to suggest where our man was headed. The star maps on the table weren’t a lot of help, if he’d buggered off in that direction we didn’t have the manpower to spare at this point. The cacodemons are sampling the plants, they have this tendency to put anything in their mouths, and Iniquities is checking out the booze supply, which amounts to drinking on the job but I didn’t say anything, picking up silk pyjamas and bamboo towels off the bedroom floor (“Does nice for himself, dun’ee?”) and whiffing the colognes in the bath, which, fair enough, could help with the tracking.

Things started to go bad when we opened the third door. I guess in all the excitement Hastur’d missed passing on the little detail that his buddy the Duke’d been dissolved right in the doorway of what looked like a home office, and suddenly one of the cacodemons, eager little beaver, is hopping around with his big toe bubbling and foaming and hollering bloody murder. Should’ve made him ditch the flip-flops.

Records looked around in a panic, broad-jumped over Ligur, braver demon than I am, grabbed a spray bottle of water off the desk and rinsed him down. _“You fucking idiot!”_ Iniquities is yelling while the cacodemon huffs his breath, they say it’s like getting soap in your eyes only all over, _“how d’ye know that wasn’t – “_

“Wasn’t,” puffs the cacodemon, hopping away from Consomme Ligur on one foot, Records tiptoeing back out after him. So much for stealth. Cacodemon #2, who’s stationed at the entry door in case Crowley was in there and tried to make a break for it, is yelling to find out what’s wrong and Infernal Records is in Iniquities’ face, _I suppose you had a better idea,_ and by the time I get them calmed down someone’s banging on the ceiling in the flat below.

The one thing this confirms is our man is Not At Home, ‘cos if the bastard can throw Holy Water around in bucketloads – literally, there’s the bucket – we’d all be fizzing like a stomach powder at this point.

I start to get the feeling we’ve bit off more than we can chew.

* * *

I’m beginning to think the best plan is to just faff about and report no luck every hour until the shite hits the fan and everyone’s got bigger things to think about, but _Iniquities_ decides it's time to hire a car. We’re expensed for it, but no one’s got a clue where to go, and finally the Records guy flags down a cab. Next thing you know we’re heading off through London traffic like a whizz-bang (we picked up a lot of the whizz-bangs from a few wars back and took ‘em back Downstairs, nothing like seeing one of those babies go ricocheting through the corridors, scaring crap out of the cleaning crews).

“I will take you to my brother’s business,” says the cabbie in a musical accent, “fair and cheap, clean cars, do not let yourself be cheated by these big firms at Heathrow.” We’re all stuffed in the back seat, I’ve got Cacodemon #1 on my lap and he reeks up close but I think everyone else is protected by the cabbie’s fondness for patchouli. I’ve just got him settled – he’s still kind of punchy and he’s probably going to lose that toe --

– when we swerve and squeal on the pavement and I look past him, and here’s the London Fire Brigade blocking the intersection, rozzers whistling and waving people down side streets, hoses pounding water on a storefront.

“God willing, no one is harmed,” intones our driver and starts to throw it into reverse, when Records says “Hey, isn’t that the shop? In the photo.”

I take a good look. Damn right it is. _Too_ much of a coincidence. “We need to stake this place out.” I’m reaching for the door handle and Iniquities says “Need the car. Gotta have transport.”

“Okay, pal. _You_ need to stake this place out. Report anything.” I make the pinky-and-thumb gesture that says _phone me_ , hop out of the cab, and yank him out into the street, protesting and flailing. “Rubberneck with the best!” And I’m back in the cab before he can pick himself up. There. Rid of that arsehole, at least for the moment. Off we go.

And go. And go. Rajiv Khanna’s brother (that’s the name on the licence) must run a shop half way to Wales. Twenty minutes, thirty, nearly forty (“what you pay in my fare you will save on his prices”), we’re actually outside the M25, the one Crowley gimmicked back during construction, fucking brilliant if you ask me. Which reminds me that cab drivers who take you miles out of your way were one of his, too, and I thought it was bloody genius at the time. Gotta say it’s serving him well.

We’re turning off the road when when the phone rings. _Dies Irae,_ Verdi’s forfucksake, like I needed that.

 _“Saw him!!_ Pulled up in that flash car and ran _right into the fire,_ no fucking idea what this is about, I need backup – “

_“You’re the fuckwit who sent us halfway back to Hell for a fucking car!"_

“Come get me – _”_ There’s a clatter, which sounds like Iniquities hitting the pavement phone and all, and a lot of scrambling, and then more quietly: “Blew right out of there... Nearly knocked me down. Carryin’ _one_ book -- took off in that car, but it’s city traffic. Going to try –– “ The connection dropped out.

Better call Bubs. Shite.

* * *

Ten minutes and an ear-chewing later, I’m finally doing business with Maneesh Khanna. What he’s got for us is a Skoda with an aftermarket fender that doesn’t match, a rip in the upholstery and a passenger side mirror that won’t adjust. But it’s dirt cheap and we’re there and anything to get out of the patchouli-smelling cab and back to our mission. The cacodemon’s looking really peaky, and I’m thinking he may just end up in the boot until we have to return the car, not like he needs to breathe or anything, but he’s Mister Gung Ho and wants to hang with his buddy.

“We are tracking meteorological aberrationzs west of London,” Bubs had said, after ripping me a new one for leaving only one operative at the bookshop and letting another one get sidelined first thing. “It may mean szzomething. We’re szzending scoutsz from the elite 666th legion to recon. Stand by for updateszz.”

Yeah, right. I start the engine, a gust of wind almost flaps loose the banner that says _Mani’s Cheap Best Car Hire_ , and a fish hits the windscreen.

We promptly get lost.

* * *

By the time we get going back towards town – we’ve gotten miles out of our way but eventually picked up the M40 – the wind’s nearly blowing the Skoda off the motorway, there’s frogs mixed in with the fish and the cacodemon is delirious. The traffic’s slowed to a crawl and there are people pulling onto the shoulder, spraying gravel everywhere, trying to end-run the backup. Phone rings again.

 _“Tracked him!!!_ Just sitting in a pub getting arseholed – should I hold my position or try – “

“ _Don’t try anything!_ Could have anything on him – water pistol – spray bottle – “

“Trying to get closer, get a better look – oh, _fuck,_ mate, there’s an _angel_ in there, Celestial form, I can feel it – “ When we’re in a corporation we’re pretty incognito on both sides, but those Celestial forms just radiate; it’s like taking the cover off a lantern. Crowley’s got to know there’s an angel there, and now things make even less sense.

“Get clear and wait for orders – “  
  
”You’re givin’ _orders_ now?”

“Zhe put me in charge – “

Records is yanking at my sleeve. I turn around and the cacodemon in the back seat is starting to sort of blur and bubble, and something unhealthy’s happening under what I think is a shirt, and I suddenly realize: he’s got Holy Water poisoning. Any second now he’s going to blow.

I swerve onto the shoulder and floor it until I reach a place up ahead where there’s a good steep slope outside the barrier, which I plough right into. The car lurches, I jump out, grab the cacodemon and sling him underhand as far as I can manage, straight toward the tree verge, just before he goes _SPLOOOOT_ in all directions. I don’t look too closely at what’s hanging on the foliage. Turn around instead and look at the Skoda, whose front end is listing to port. We’ve had a puncture.

A fish falls into the boot as I open it up to look for the spare. “Fuck my life,” I mutter, even though it’s kind of redundant to say it.

* * *

It takes forever to get the tyre changed out, not least because Cacodemon #2 isn’t any help, sniffling in the back seat and blowing his nose all over a page out of the ten-year-old London A to Zed that was floating around back there. Well, he’s lost his mate, and he’s probably just figuring out this was a lot more dangerous mission than he bargained for. They’re not the brightest, but I’ve got kind of a soft spot for ’em.

The spare’s as mushy as a balloon filled three days ago (kind of a go-to irritation I like to do at Brighton Pier) but there’s a foot pump in the boot. Me and the Records guy take turns, getting soaked, hanging onto the door handles to keep from being blown away.

I’m trying to make sense of what’s going on. Crowley’s just bucked the whole management hierarchy, hidden the Antichrist, gone into a burning building for a book, and now he’s just _drinking in a pub_ with an angel stalking him –

Meeting him?

Watching over him?

This shite’s above my pay grade.

Nothing’s getting onto the M25, or out of it to where we are. “Gotta be a way back in,” I say, and grab the A to Zed before the cacodemon can snot up any more pages – the Skoda hasn’t got a working GPS, and Google Maps is offline. (Downstairs uses Vodafone, and everyone says the coverage is shite but it’s never mattered to me before). We manage to crawl to an exit, and Records says if I get turned back around outbound he thinks there’s a B-road that’ll get us across, and I’m doing that when a frickin’ _haddock_ hits the windscreen, cracks it this time, and I have to pull over again and pop out to get its tailfin free of the wipers and –

_FWOOOOMP!_

The heat hits me like a big hand, knocks me right to the gravel of the shoulder. When I pull myself up, the whole M25’s an inferno, and trust me, I know from Infernal. There’s ripples in the air, checkered police cars going up like the knots in a woodfire, you’d think it was Australia, there’s gas tanks exploding and shouting and collisions as cars on the inbound lanes try to pull off and jam into reverse and turn the other side of the motorway into a chain pile-up and then –

–– and then that magnificent Bentley, the one in the photo, the one I’d love to get my hands on, it has to be, comes blazing, literally, out of the wall of flame in front of us and hurtles past, already on fire, like a big-arsed bird.

I jumped into the Skoda and floored it.

* * *

There’s no way a Skoda can keep pace with a car like that, right? Whole troop of cavalry under the hood. But then, how’s a car peeling down the motorway, at full throttle, on fire? He’s got to be using a miracle to hold it together, and we may not have the same jam as he does, but there’s three of us. It gives the cacodemon something to do besides sniffle. Every time I’m sure we’ve lost him, I spot that little pinpoint of flame and smoke up ahead; the smoke gets blacker over time. Rubber parts, I guess.

I’m working the phone out of my pocket when it rings. Big Boss again. “Report in, you’re late!” Zhe shouts down the connection. “Sighting of the Horsepersons is confirmed, repeat, confirmed, believed headed north on the M40 motorway – “

“So’re we!” I shout back. “And so’s he! Right outside Denham!" (Records is mouthing the exits at me while I speak.) "We are in pursuit – “

“ _Doeszz he have the child with him?”_

“How the fuck am I supposed to tell, his car’s on fire – “ I’m running out of respect for the hierarchy here. The back windows are open to air out the smell of grieving cacodemon, the A to Zed is flapping around in the Records guy’s lap next to me, I can barely hear myself _or_ Bubs and it’s taking all the miracle I have to keep the engine from overheating.

“Duke Haszztur will attempt to interczzept!” Zhe yells down the line. “The Horsepersonzz will home in on our Master’s szzon – report if you see them – Yeszz, what now – “ Zhe’s already picking up on someone else’s call. I put the phone down and drive.

* * *

When he went off the motorway I kind of panicked. Everything had been flying by in a blurred slipstream for so long it felt wrong to be moving slower, but we had to hang back – anyone who could hold that car together in the middle of that blaze would make short work of us. We’d just have to let the Princes handle him. I pulled the phone out again.

“Exiting the motorway for… where is this….”

“Tadfield,” says the guy from Records.

The cacodemon doesn’t look so good. He’s really put too much of himself into the miracle that kept us up to speed, but I get it; he’s got skin in this game now. Cute little houses are popping up near the B-road, window boxes, little gardens, you could puke, and here we are in a village square and some old cove walking a decrepit dachshund gives us the stinkeye as we slow down.

“I expect you’ll be wanting directions to the airbase too,” he says tartly.

“Airbase?”

“Happen it’s a rally. First some pair who ought to be old enough to know better, on a _motor scooter._ Dangerous, destructive things. Frightened Shutzi. And then, if you please, some flash party in a _burning_ car. Is it some kind of carnival stunt? Because this village is _my home_ and I am not the _least_ amused.” Prissy old fart.

“They wanted to go to an airbase?” calls Records across me.

“Apparently. I suppose you do too. That direction, second right…”

We’re already pulling off when the cacodemon pokes his head out the back window, thumbs in his ears, sticking out his tongue. The dog pitches a fit. We get out of there. I can already see the trail of black smoke up ahead.

* * *

The gate of the airbase is standing open. You can still whiff the burnt tyres and paint and horsehair and it’s breaking my heart, honestly, I wanted a shot at that car, but I've already discarded my fantasy of getting it as a job-well-done award after they do whatever they’re planning to do with Crowley. I don’t like to think. I mean, actually I am starting to think, and what I’m thinking is Fuck This Shite. I’ve lost half my team – it’s pretty certain now that the Iniquities guy is toast – I just want to go back to inventing things like illegible assembly instructions, and I never signed on to get extinguished or even just discorporated in some fucking war.

It feels very dangerous here, like something big is about to happen. We pull off onto the grass, leave the doors open when we drop to the ground, no one wants to make a noise but we need to know. The cacodemon’s holding onto my ankle. Records is white as paste. (Downstairs he’s kind of a gray shade of purple, but they did issue us convincing human corporations, though the cacodemon’s doesn’t pass close inspection.) We can just see a scooter, like the old git said, and the gatehouse, and…

…there he is. There’s nothing left of the car but scrap metal, he’s walking like he’s drunk, but the tone of his voice carries, _damn,_ he’s got style, really did always admire it.

Suddenly all I want to do is watch how he handles this. Records is elbowing me and hissing _call Zher_ and I shake my head. “You’re off your trolley,” he says, “d’ye know what they’ll do to us? H _e betrayed Hell,_ we’ve got a job, if you won’t I will – “ he’s digging in his pocket for his own burner phone, can’t seem to remember which he put it in, I grab one hand, he’s got the phone out with the other, along with – “Watch out!” I hiss just a second too late, as he plants an elbow on the grass to push himself up, right on top of the Holy Water capsule.

The cacodemon’s fainted. I throw him over my shoulder and leg it back to the Skoda, dig in my pocket for the keys. Remember that Records took them. I dash back. They’re the only Earthly thing he had with him, and there they are, in the middle of a spreading puddle of demon and Holy Water.

I'm screwed.

* * *

So that’s how I got a ringside seat to everything that happened next. Because if I was as fucked as I thought I was, I might as well see how it went down. I used to do broken-field running in the plains of Gehenna, just for fitness, and I made it to a pretty large building just as the Four came out of it to face Him.

I hear the voice. The big one.

I’m not sure ordinary humans can hear it. But the kid can – the towheaded little cutie-pie that I can just see facing _them._ The Horsepersons. War, Famine, Pollution, and… _Death._

He’s just a kid.

I do Minors with kids all the time. I mean, they’re minors. As the twig is bent, et cetera, they’re pretty easy to influence, just put the idea in their head that they can get away with forging Dad’s signature, or that nicking their mate’s bicycle for a joyride isn’t a big deal, and your day’s work is done. They’re so innocent. Sometimes I’ve wondered if I’m really cut out for this, but like I say, it’s a life, didn’t get much say in it.

And he’s got his mates with him. Little weasel in glasses, little weasel not in glasses, tomboy looking like she’s going to take everyone’s face off with nothing but the Power Of Glare. They’re really going to make this lot start the last war? Doesn’t seem fair, really.

Except they don’t.

They take War’s sword. They say No. One Horseperson after another snaps away. I feel my heart going like it hasn’t since the Fall.

This world is _worth_ something.

Crowley must have thought so too. And his angel.

Because that’s who’s beside him – the angel who wasn’t stalking him or watching over him, but standing with him; I can sense rank, not one of the big important ones but still a Principality. And for the first time since the Fall, I don’t hate all the bastards. All of them but this one, maybe, ‘cos just by how they’re here, together, I know he’s told Heaven to go fuck itself. Pretty much exactly what I’m ready to say to Hell. If I can figure out how to do it and stay alive.

And I’m just lost watching them, _how exactly am I going to make that happen,_ and – the light blazes.

I can’t help letting out a yelp. I’m hoping it doesn’t carry, and when I can see again Lord Beelzebub certainly isn’t looking in my direction – Zhe’s looking at the kid, and giving him the kind of chewing that I’ve seen dozens of times, quiet, deadly. They’re both badgering Hell out of him, or rather trying to badger it into him, and I want to stand up and cheer because he’s got both feet planted and he’s scared shitless and he’s not backing down, even when I hear Gabriel saying _someone should tell your father_ and think of that door with the ring in it, the one that we don’t step on because it feels like we’re walking over our own graves.

They both blink out.

I stand up.

A hand grabs my scruff.

“Explain yourszzzelf,” buzzes a voice, quietly, in my ear.

I’m frozen for what feels like the entire duration of the Fall. When I can find words they kind of surprise me.

“There’s a cacodemon passed out in a Skoda in front of the gates,” I say. “None of this is his fault.”

The cuffs are still in there, too. What can I say? Lavender's not my colour, either, but try to tell Zher that.

* * *

Everyone on both sides knows what happened at the trial. I was in a holding cell off one side of the amphitheatre, but they brought me out so I could get to see what was going to happen to me as soon as they finished with Crowley.

 _Culpably incompetent_ , they said. Not like I volunteered, is it? Lost two team members to Holy Water, one in _suspicious circumstances_ , put another in _harm’s way,_ he’s still not reported in, and the surviving cacodemon’s catatonic (almost sings, doesn’t it) and just curls up and wails every time he sees me. _Damning_ , they called it, but en’t that redundant?

What I’m seeing, they’re all thwarted and pissed off and they’ll take it out on whoever. The demon from Belial’s secretarial pool who took off my ankle cuffs and shoved me into the front row behind the barrier enjoyed it more than a kid with an ice lolly, which is how I’ve tempted some of them into stealing the milk money.

Meaning I got to watch History. An Archangel in Hell. A demon lolling in a tub of Holy Water – calling for someone to scrub his back, Radox, and if I remember rightly a loofah. Something about exfoliation. The Princes are all down there pissing themselves, the barrier goes black just as he splashes and a chunk of floor goes up like thermite, Belial’s guy isn’t interested in me any more -- everyone’s stampeding over one another in a panic to get out of the auditorium.

I scooch down into the space between the rows. Wait.

I can hear the Princes leaving. Scout things out. My wrists are still cuffed, bows and all, but I spy what I’m looking for when I slip around the barrier, a splash of the stuff still on one edge of the tub, and lower the connecting chain oh, so, carefully onto it. The flare leaves black blurs in my vision, but I’m free. Scarper for the lift and say _Marmite_. It still works.

I can just see them when I get out to the street. Walking side by side – the legendary Crowley with a short, pudgy, curly-haired angel, looking like they’ve just had nothing more exciting than a morning in the park.

Which is where I track ’em, almost losing them once or twice; I’m trying to catch their conversation when off they go again, leaving me hanging back, trying to think how to ask for help. Following them into a swanky restaurant isn’t going to make friends.

I can wait. It takes hours, the sun is angling down into late afternoon, but they finally emerge, and walk down towards the park again – laughing, gesturing, at least half cut. They’re in a good mood. I’ve got a hope, if I can –

Crowley’s hand steals into the angel’s. Fuck. I’m not going to be thanked for breaking up a personal moment. I wait to see how far this is going to go –

–– and a weight slams me down flat, face in the gravel, dust up my nose. I struggle, try to throw off whoever Hell’s sent, _not now not after all this,_ jerk an elbow back, hear a whoopee-cushion explosive exhale, get half free and –

It’s the guy from Iniquities. He’s looking pretty rough. He’s sucking wind, but he manages to choke out “I – promised –– your fucking head is – coming right off – “ He gets a knee into my back, and a grip on one broken wrist-cuff. I get my head up in time to see Crowley turned back to look at us, the angel with one hand on his arm, leaning close, speaking in his ear.

“ _Oi! You!_ Weren’t you in the front row? Down there?”

The angel says nothing, dangerously. Cute, cuddly and not to be fucked with.

“ _Friend –_ Demon Crowley, please, big fan of yours, need help, need to know – “ Iniquities has another try at slamming me to the path. There’s grit in my eyes and my lip’s bleeding, and then something that feels like the sky stepped on us on its way to an urgent appointment.

The weight comes off me. The angel’s hauling him up by the collar and I can tell by the way his eyes pop that that grip won’t slip.

“My dear, violence is _so_ unnecessary.”

“Help,” I manage again through what I realize now is a four-star bloody nose. “They were gonna throw me in next – ”

* * *

We get over to the benches. The angel gives me a hanky, all the while keeping the kind of elbow grip on the Iniquities guy that you know can get right painful if it needs to. Harder customer than he looked. I gabble it all out, the assignment, the cock-ups, Bubs, the lot, explain I’m ready to be done with Hell, _just like you, Demon Crowley, tell me how you did it, ‘cos they’re gonna come for me –-_

“I’m afraid it was a bit of a one-off for us, dear,” says the angel as if he weren’t sitting there sinking his thumb into a demon’s ulnar nerve. (I looked it up later.) “We can’t really protect you, but if I’m any judge – “

“They've got bigger fish to fry, reckon,” says Crowley. “What’s your bellyache then?” He’s looking at the Iniquities guy, who, to my complete surprise, breaks down in tears.

“Just – had a perfectly good life – got to go to the best places – cushy job and – now they’ll break me all the way back down if I even _live –”_

“Right, mate,” Crowley interrupted, “or you could be out on the plain of Megiddo just about now with a lot stroppier angel than _him” –_ a cock of the thumb – “givin’ you a smite loads bigger than that one, spang between the eyes.” This makes Iniquities break down harder.

“There, there,” says the angel. He’s apparently got a limitless supply of hankies. “There’s always a solution. We found ours.”

“He _dragged me into – “_

“You were _winding me up – “_

“There is _absolutely_ no need to quarrel,” says the angel. “We’ve just proven it, haven’t we? Now be friends.” Crowley’s facepalming, but Iniquities puts out his hand, though I notice the angel doesn’t let go of his elbow till we’ve shaken.

He sees the remains of the cuffs then, and snaps his fingers, and they’re gone, and I see him and Crowley exchanging – well, sort of a secret wink.

“I do think if you persist on this plane you might be able to make a go of it,” Mr. Angel goes on. “It can be a lovely place. Music, food, the theatre."

“Whisky,” adds Crowley. “And fast cars.”

That makes me wince. “Bloody shame about that Bentley,” I say. “It was a beauty.”

“Adam put it back,” he surprises me by answering. “Good as new.”

So that’s the kid’s name. Figures, somehow.

“So you see,” chimes in the angel, “everyone can have a second chance. Find a place you fit in. Get to know a few mortals. Keep your miracles quiet. And ring up if you need a bit of advice.” He presses a business card into my palm. It looks like it’s been in his pocket since 1973 or so.

“ _Angel – “_ Crowley's tone tells me he's said it the same way a thousand times.

“It’s the least we can do, Crowley. -- I'm feeling quite generous-spirited after today, aren't you?" He looks over at Crowley with a smile that glows like my wings used to, back Before, and reaches in his pocket. “If you need a place for the night, just to regroup – “

“We’ve got these NatWest cards,” I said. “Hell won’t be billed till next month.”

The Iniquities guy lights up. “Savoy Hotel,” he says. “Done lots of jobs at the Savoy.”

“Well, we’ll take our leave, then,” says the angel. “ _Do_ let us know how you get on.”

They’d joined hands again by the time they were twenty paces away. Stopped at the far crossing. Confirmed I wasn’t imagining things earlier, when the angel put his face up for a kiss while they waited for the signal to change.

Twice.

I looked at Iniquities, nodded toward them. All I meant was _what the entire fuck,_ but: “Don’t even _think_ about it,” he said.

It was when he hailed the cab that I remembered we did know someone up here, after all.

* * *

I’ve just about worked off the cost of the damage to the Skoda. Someone from the Tadfield constabulary called Mani’s Cheap Best Car Hire the morning after the world didn’t end, and the towing was really more than the repairs. Maneesh assumed we’d been taken to Casualty, God be praised no one was badly hurt, and I could’ve just let him cut my NatWest card but I didn’t want the address coming back to Mammon’s office twice. There was something I liked about the guy, and I gotta admit I enjoy driving, so the brothers and us, we ended up striking a bargain.

Iniquities, he’s the one you’ll actually find at Mani’s place, tweaking up the beaters so people tell their friends they’ve never seen a bargain rental in such nice condition. Keeps his miracles small, but it makes a difference. Saving up his wages; when he’s got enough set aside, Mani’s going in with him on a detail shop. They’ve already got their eye on an empty garage across the street.

Me, I’m in Rajiv’s cab when he isn’t. He’s always amazed that I get the kind of mileage I do out of so little petrol. Again, just a small-end miracle, but the brothers gave us a chance, and I’m doing my best to help out. Immigrants, we gotta stick together.

It’s not quite where I pictured ending up, but then I don't have to go to those all-hands meetings where we all had to pretend we weren’t dozing off (that buzzing can put you in a trance), or worry about getting busted to Beast duty. I get to do something I like, we found a flat to share, and Iniquities, I mean Nick, doesn’t leave his dirty socks on the sitting-room floor too often.

You want a courteous, clean cab ride in Central London, call up Roger and Rajiv's. It’s in the directory. If we get far enough ahead, what with the money I’m saving on petrol, we might expand to a fleet.

And I might go in on the detail shop. I don’t suppose there’s a chance in Hell – or, well, out of it – that that Bentley’d ever show up there. But I can dream.

_finis_

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the pluck and hustle of immigrants. They get the job done.
> 
> I've been fetched before by the idea that Crowley and Aziraphale might spark more defections Upstairs and Down, but this is the first time I've received a first-person account.
> 
> If you liked, share, reblog, comment! Authors are always thirsty ;)
> 
> Come say hello on Tumblr @CopperPlateBeech


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